Butterfingers

Some days just can't hold onto their hours. This day — Wednesday — has butterfingers. It feels as though only seconds ticked since I phoned Jon Iverson this morning. In fact, an entire day has gone by. People are walking out the door, saying "bye," without looking back. Meanwhile, I'd like to start from the beginning.

What happened between then and now?

Many things, I suppose. April's trees have sprinkled their tree pollens all over Madison Avenue. I've been sneezing like mad. The whites of my eyes have gone pink like the cherry blossoms on Orchard Street.

Jon tells me the wisteria is beginning to bloom. Atascadero is calling. I must go and see it.

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